


finding each other

by conflictedfleur



Category: Maurice (1987)
Genre: Drinking, Fluff, Late Night Conversations, Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28248366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conflictedfleur/pseuds/conflictedfleur
Summary: In which Alec catches sight of Maurice, drunk and in his night suit, wandering the grounds like a lost boy.
Relationships: Maurice Hall/Alec Scudder
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A short moment, written in dual perspective.  
> The scene is a product of my imagination, although spot the film quote later on.
> 
> Please do not publish this elsewhere <3

Maurice’s perspective:

I feel sick. Sick of myself, sick of these desires that are supposedly so wicked. Sick of the reverend and his sly digs, always voicing an odd concern for me - as if I am some sort of sinner.

Buggar. That’s the most wretched part. I suppose I am sort of sinner. If I am to reference the teachings of the church, the teachings of my school master all those years ago.

I think of Scudder. The way his soft expression juxtaposes his rough hands. And the butterfly wings that crash against my ribcage when he smiles at me from across the grounds of Pendersleigh. The forbidden warmth I feel for him in the pit of my stomach. The nights when I dream of him in ways I know I shouldn’t, envisioning his strong frame buried in my arms. All those years of physical (and emotional) refusal from Clive have left me with a lurking hunger for returned affection. In some ways it horrifies me. In other ways, I desire it more than anything else in the world.

In this moment, I’m grateful that thoughts are private. And can’t be overheard in fragments, by a passing maid, in the way that spoken words can. If anyone was to hear my thoughts right now, I’d be locked in a dark room for sure. Branded sick in the head. Or mad.

~

I bed plan to bed early, feigning a weak excuse to Mrs Durham. Anne and Clive are away for a few days and, whilst she means well, the latter’s mother is not great company - especially when my head in spinning as it is this evening.

But, upon arrival in my room, I am restless. The superstitious of the few would label me possessed. It is though I am overcome with a rage, at myself, and a need that cannot be sustained. I want to shake myself, give myself a talking to. Why can’t I just snap out of this? The hypnotist in London seems just as stumped as I am. Perhaps I am incurable.

Sleep finds me eventually, although broken and disturbed, wrought with snippets of dreams. There is Alec, as there usually is, his expression thoughtful. I reach out to him but the scene ripples like water and I am back at home with my mother and sisters. Mother is crying. The scene ripples again. And I am alone, in an unfurnished room. The room is cold. I am isolated. The walls are closing in.

I awake, jolted.

It feels as though I am in some feverish state, as I drift down the hallway, down the stairs - floating almost. My mind is still buzzing with thoughts, crackling like flames. I intend to dampen the fire.

I’m cautious of lurking maids, perhaps carrying out their own mischief in these early hours. But it becomes apparent that I am entirely alone in the downstairs part of the house.

In the shabby sitting room (Clive really should get this place repainted) my clumsy fingers stumble upon the liquor cabinet. I am already damned - what would be the harm in damning myself further?

~

I drink from the brandy bottle in great, greedy gulps, as though it is spring water and I am parched. Each sip seems to fill my head with cotton wool instead of thoughts - a welcome change.

By the time I have edged my way out of the kitchen door, slippered feet making contact with damp grass, I have overindulged.


	2. Chapter 2

Alec’s perspective:

It is unlike me to be out so late. Especially when tomorrow promises more physical exhaustion. This gamekeeper’s role ain’t nearly as straightforward as it sounds. The old lady has me gardening, mending this and that, disposing of irreparable rubbish - the whole lot.

But tonight, I’m uneasy. My eyes don’t seem to want to stay closed. My head isn’t yet destined for the pillow. Had some strange dream about that Mr Hall fellow. We were walking in a field of tall grass, laughing, fingers brushing. Right peculiar. I couldn’t get back to sleep after that. So I slipped out, for a smoke, some fresh air too.

I linger by the edge of the copse of trees that open out onto Mr Durham’s grounds.  
Cigarette poised between thumb and forefinger, all thoughtful like.

That’s when I see him. Mr Hall.

How odd. He appears to be in his night suit - slippers and all. I worry that he’ll spot me. But, on closer examination, he’s half gone on drink.

There’s a bottle in his hand; whiskey, brandy perhaps. When it catches the moon’s light, the bottle appears more empty than full. Oh Mr Hall. What are you doing, flushing your body with that strong poison? And at this hour.

He descends down the grassy slope, terribly unsteady - I’m surprised he doesn’t lose his footing and fall. Mr Hall sways like a willow tree in the breeze, not half as graceful mind you.

I want to leave him to it. Foolish posh sort, drinking away all his senses. But my dream tugs at my memory. And so does my reality. I’d be lying through my teeth if I said I hadn’t thought about Mr Hall. With his ridiculous suited get up and soft, styled blonde locks. Sometimes I catch myself holding his gaze for a little longer than any reasonable groundskeeper would when addressing a gentleman. He’s nice to look at. I’ll give him that.

Presently, Mr Hall is veering off in the direction of the woods. I snub my cigarette out, regretfully, on a nearby tree and watch. I lose sight of him after a moment, he’s entered the woods far below my current lookout space.

Curse you Alec. Go after him. What if he hits that pretty head on a tree, knocks himself clean out?

I traipse behind him, into the mouth of the woods.


	3. Chapter 3

Maurice’s perspective:

I flop down beneath an old oak. The bottle is light in my wobbling hand, nearly empty. 

Maurice you drunken bastard. What good have you done, behaving as though you are a teenager?

The forest is shrouded in dull moonlight, overrun with the skeletal frames of trees, reaching up towards the sky like narrow fingers.

Once, I would have wished for Clive’s company, lounging beside me perhaps, scolding me (as he often does) for drinking too much. Now, I know that Clive has truly released me, latched onto Anne as a more ‘sensible’ option. I don’t think I have the heart to marry a woman, spin her a lie for our lifetime together, wince when I touch her - battling a clandestine, nagging image of a taut male frame instead of a curved female silhouette.

I am, as it seems, destined to live out my days in romantic isolation. If only my head was screwed onto my shoulders correctly, my disposition mightn’t be so hateful.

It takes me a moment or so to realise that I’m crying. All of a sudden my cheeks are wet with cascading streams of tears. Commanding sobs wrack through me in waves as I drown in this vile, drunken self pity.


	4. Chapter 4

Alec’s perspective:

I wander a dozen paces behind Mr Hall as he drags his intoxicated body through the forest. He is eerily silent, tormented maybe.

When he sinks down beneath a tree, I hang back. Conscious that, even in his current state, he’ll catch sight of me and die of fright.

From my nearby spot, I observe Mr Hall. He mumbles to himself, flailing a hand in despair before breaking down into tears.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a gentleman like Mr Hall cry before, so unapologetically, so openly. His whole body trembles, portraying a deep vulnerability - as if he is a small boy.

And in that moment I want to cradle him. I want to take away whatever pain he is in. I want to reassure him, “t’will be alright sir.”

I hesitate.

Then call out, loudly as I dare, so not to alert a light sleeper in the silent house.

“Mr Hall. Sir.”


	5. Chapter 5

Maurice’s perspective:

“Mr Hall. Sir.”

I freeze, recognising that sharp country tone. Scudder’s voice, distinct, even in this haze.

Sure enough, he emerges from the trees meters ahead.

“Scu...Scudder.” I reply, acting as though it is the most normal thing in the world for me to be breaking down in the middle of the woods - and in my nightwear. My voice is choked.

Alec nears, sitting down gingerly in front of me. For a brief, insane moment, I want to reach out and touch him - verify that he is real, that he is here.

The groundskeeper beats me to it, extending his hand to brush a stray tear from my cheek. His fingertip is both rough and soft at the same time - gentle.

“Why’re you crying so sir?” He asks softly.

Where to begin. 

“I... There’s something,” my voice trails off, “there’s something wrong with me Alec.” I confess, the brandy loosening my tongue dangerously.

“Nonsense sir.”


	6. Chapter 6

Alec’s perspective:

Never in a million years did I think that I’d be sat in the woods with Mr Hall (of all people!) in the early hours of a Thursday morning.

But here I am, wiping tears from his poor, crumpled face.

“I...There’s something wrong with me Alec.” Mr Hall informs me, his voice is terribly slurred.

“Nonsense sir.” I reply, catching another stray tear.

“You’d be disgusted.” He adds, quietly.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t be.”

I realise now that Mr Hall’s foreboding upper-class status is simply a fickle addition to the smart suits he humours. I am human. He is human. Nature is indifferent to us.

“I...I’m one of those. One of those unspeakables.” Mr Hall stammers, sending another bucket full of tears down his flushed cheeks.

He flinches away from my attentive finger this time, letting his tears drip from his chin, the way rain water drips through the ceiling of Mr Durham’s sitting room.

An unspeakable? Does he mean?

Mr Hall takes my silence as confusion. “Of...of the Oscar Wilde sort.” He clarifies.

I nod slowly, trying to ignore the way my heart leaps with excitement in my chest at such a submission. Unfortunately, my mouth runs away from me, as it often does.

“You see. I think I’m something of an unspeakable myself, Mr Hall.” The words leave my lips before I can restrain them. I’m surprised to find I mean what I said, entirely.

Mr Hall pauses, eyes wide. He murmurs something inaudible. And that’s when I let myself kiss him, barely mind you. My lips graze his, tasting salt and brandy. I withdraw, conscious not to exploit a gentleman in his current state.

Mr Hall is taken aback. The kiss seems to have sobered him up somewhat and when his eyes latch onto mine they’re clear as day. 

We remain for a few fragile moments, just holding each other's eyes, and a dozen lines are spoken without words.


	7. Chapter 7

Maurice’s perspective:

Alec’s response, the brief kiss he dropped on my lips, I must be dreaming.

“Lets get you back to the house Mr Hall,” he extends a hand and tugs me (not too firmly) to my feet, “you’re in need of sleep.”

I nod numbly, concentrating on the feeling of his hand grasping my own, steering me. The brandy bottle is discarded in my wake.

“Alec darling,” I whisper.

He pauses, quizzical.

“Won’t you please call me Maurice.”

The gamekeeper grins. I can’t resist brushing my hand over his dishevelled dark locks, just for a moment.

“Maurice,” He tests the word on his lips, “You could never disgust me Maurice.”

I reach for his face to kiss him again but he turns away, albeit with hesitation.

“Not in your current state sir.” Alec mutters, gripping my hand in his. I don’t have the energy the argue again that I am Maurice to him, never ‘sir.’

And with that, he hauls my lumbering carcass back to the house, without complaint and with the promise to pick up where we left off when I’m not so “bloody drunk,” as he puts it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed reading <3


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